No Day Without A Line

“No day without a line”. I quote my sweet poet niece, in turn quoting Beethoven in her blog called 100 Days or 100 di Questi Giorni to find the celebration in the ordinary. She has started this glory to get herself writing when it is easier not to. Now she has 13 days - each one a delicious morsel which I’m savouring and lingering over each night, loving her generous heart on the page -

feeding mine.

When we were together she said “Let’s set up a blog for you too”,nudging me to come out from hiding in my journal. Inspired by her courage and beauty my blog will be for 21 days. They say this is how long it takes to break a habit and lay down the groove for a new one. For me it is the habit of not trusting my writing. So thank you, dear niece. Here are my lines and let’s see what I cook up. Food will slither in soon - after my husband it’s my first love.

Tuesday April 20th

Day 1

Today I find myself at my desk writing in purple ink. My diary says 10-1pm Lifestory. That means me writing it. The story of my life - which I’ve said I will do before I’m 60. Instead I notice I’m curled on the futon, foetal, under the softest blanket the colour of egg yolks. Letting last night’s nightmare filter through me. I can hear birdsong outside my window and I know 2 creamy white cotton rugs - brought back from many trips to Portugal with my dear sisters - are hanging on the spinner in weak sunshine. Strength for recording my past has deserted me today.

So I will think about lunch. This morning I retrieved a soggy bunch of spring onions from the bottom of the fridge. R brought them back from the allotment last week and I forgot them. I’ve snapped the ends off a gaggle of asparagus spears he picked last night. So I can feel the beginnings of our lunch whispering to me - maybe some fat black field mushrooms too and some ribbons of pasta.... we will eat at our old wooden table on the patio. But probably keep our jumpers on.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day to visit that other country of the past.